Unforgotten
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "Mom said he used to cry over me, but that was before he lost her. I guess nothing else seems important after you lose the love of your life." 16 years after the plane crash, Lexie Grey still has not been forgotten. Sofia POV. One-shot. M/L, C/A.


_Author's Note: This story is set 16 years after the plane crash and Lexie's death. It's told in Sofia's POV, who is now 17 years old. One-shot._

_Summary: "Mom said he used to cry over me, but that was before he lost her. I guess nothing else seems important enough to waste tears on when you lose the love of your life." It's been sixteen years since the plane crash, but Lexie Grey has not been forgotten, not by the people who loved her and not by those her memory still haunts. Sofia POV. One-shot_

.

It was only a few years ago I learned her name. Learned the reason he was quiet, why he wasn't married, why he didn't have a girlfriend, and why certain days of the year he wouldn't speak to anyone. Why he drank.

_Lexie._

I turned it over in my mind a while, repeating it again and again.

_Lexie, Lexie, Lexie._

There's a girl in my English class named Lexie. We aren't friends, so my Dad doesn't know her. Sometimes I wonder what he'd do or say if he did. But then I remember that just because they share the same name, that doesn't mean they're the same person. He probably wouldn't notice if I introduced them. He probably wouldn't even care.

Or maybe he would.

.

She was young. That was the first thing Mamí told me. And then she laughed a bit, like it was funny or embarrassing… And then, just like I've come to see always happens when this Lexie woman is brought into conversation, she got quiet and sad.

The second thing she said was to never talk to my Dad about this. About her.

_"You're thirteen, baby, so you don't understand—"_

_ "I understand!" I'd replied hotly, sure that I did. "I understand exactly—"_

_ But she'd shushed me, put a hand on my knee, and shook her head. "Sof, you don't, I'm sorry. Now, you can ask me anything you'd like, but…" She paused to look me in the eye. "Do not go and ask your Dad about her. I'm sorry, but that's off-limits, and that's the way it has to be."_

It took a few seconds, but I eventually agreed. And I asked what she was like, because I knew it might be my only chance to find out.

She was smart, Mamí said. No, she corrected a second later, brilliant. She had a memory to rival an elephant, and more than just book smarts to back her up. She was at the top of her class, literally and figuratively: if there was an opening for a surgical intern on a case, she took it. She was confident in her knowledge, her skills, and her ability to make the best out of any and every medical problem that stood in her way.

"She shouldn't have died," Mamí said a moment later. "Someone like her didn't deserve to die like she did." She grew quiet after that, and I knew from the way she stared across the room that the conversation was over. I excused myself and left her to her thoughts.

.

One day in the middle of May, I came home… He must've been drinking all day to be as wasted as he was at five o'clock at night. I had asked him to put aside the scotch—he didn't—and then asked quietly what was wrong. Stupidly, I thought it was something simple, like surgery.

I _wish _it had been surgery.

.

He was slumped over the counter in the kitchen, and I was standing across from him, silently taking inventory of all the empty bottles and glasses strewn about the house. I didn't finish and lost count the moment he started speaking.

"Today," he began, his speech slurring, "today's the anniversary of her death."

I don't need to ask who _her_ is, and he doesn't pretend to need to tell me.

We both know how much Mom and Mamí talk about him behind his back. I bite my lip at the thought, wondering if he knows they only do it because they're worried about him, because they love him, and because they're all he has left. Somehow, I'm sure he doesn't know. He would never see things that way; he would never look for the silver lining. Not these days.

His shaking voice brings me back to the present.

"Did they tell you I was with her when she died?" He looks deep into his glass, studying the thin layer of alcohol still left at the bottom. And even though he's speaking directly to me, I wonder if he even realizes that I'm here. "Did they tell you how I held her, how I looked into her eyes… How I lied to her and told her she'd be okay, she'd get out alive… Did they tell you how I told her I'd take her home and how I prom—promised her we'd be together again?" He shakes his head, and I stare at him, frozen in shock at the tears pooling in his eyelids. I've never seen my father cry before, never seen him even come close. Mom said he used to cry over me, but that was before he lost her, so I never knew that side of him. I guess nothing else and no one else seems important enough to waste your tears on when you lose the love of your life.

"Even t—then," he slurs, seemingly oblivious to my presence, "I knew I wasn't good enough for her. Even if we both got out of it alive, I knew I'd never be good enough for her. She told me she loved me that day, but still I couldn't save her. Still, I just sat there and watched. I let her die, and I…" His expression hardens and his voice is cold when he speaks next. "I let myself _live_."

I swallow my panic. I've never seen him this bad. He has never, _ever _brought her up in conversation, let alone to me. Let alone about the day she _died… on _the day she died."Dad, it's—it's…" I take a breath. I find I'm whispering when I open my mouth, and I can't raise my voice, even though I want to sound strong and dignified for him. "Daddy, it's not your fault she died."

"No, Sofia, it is not." I take a sharp breath, surprised that he's sober enough to recognize me and remember my name. "But it is my fault that I got live in her place."

"Dad—"

"Go, Sofia."

"Dad," I say, reaching across the counter and ignoring his dismissive command, "please—"

"_GO_!" The word rips out of his mouth in a hate-filled burst. "Get _out_."

I try to tell myself it's not because of me. It's because of her, it's because of today, it's because of all the alcohol… But his eyes are trained on mine, and I know he sees me, and I can't find anything but pure hatred in his blue-grey gaze.

So I follow his order and I flee.

.

I wait outside his house afterwards. My fingers fumble over the familiar buttons of my phone, and it takes me two tries to land the right number. All I can think of when Mamí picks up is that look in his eyes. And the fact that he shouted at me like he wanted me dead, too. I'm shaking as I listen to the ringing tone, and it isn't from the cold.

Finally, she picks up.

"Sofia, hey." I can hear her warm smile through the phone; it does little to calm my nerves. "What's—"

"Mamí," I interrupt, not wanting to waste any time. I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder, but of course there's no change I can see in the house. I don't think he's moved yet. "Mamí, it's Dad. You need to—"

Her voice is instantly hard. "Sofia, what are you doing at your Dad's? Today?"

"I—" I break off. How am I supposed to explain? _I just wanted to know? I know you told me not to, but I just _needed _to know— I _needed _to understand?_

"I'll be there in five minutes," she continues despite my lack of explanation. Her voice is sharp and final, and I know she's holding back from yelling at me, too. Dad's more important right now. "Don't move."

"Mamí," I whisper, knowing I have to tell her. "It's… bad. He's been—been drinking."

Even I can easily hear the fatigue in her sigh, and all at once I know this isn't a new development. The drinking, it's been going on for a while. It has to have been. Probably for years, possibly for the length of my entire life.

She sighs again. "I know, mi hija." Her voice is much softer now. "I'm sorry you had to see that, sweetie. I'll be there soon, I promise."

"Is Mom coming too?"

"She's with me right now."

I say goodbye, and hang up, and turn to look in through the front window. Through the living room, I can still see him, sitting at the kitchen counter with a drink. I feel myself grow cold despite the warm evening and I wonder, for the first time, how many times this has happened before. From Mamí's tone, it was clear that this _wasn't _the first. She's dealt with it before, dealt with _him_ before, she must have… But never in front of me. She's never even talked with Mom about it where I could overhear. But if it only happens once a year…

A chill runs up my spine.

But it hasn't always been once a year, has it? That would be impossible. He wouldn't be able to contain that grief three hundred and sixty-four days out of a year; tonight was a testament to how far he's come over the last sixteen years. I swallow the rising panic again, thinking quickly. How long ago did it _start _being once a year and… And stop being every minute of every day? When did it evolve to this, just one torturous twenty-four-hour period in a string of what must be meaningless and endless days to him now? And how have I never noticed it before tonight?

.

Though Mom stops to hug me after they pull up, Mamí marches right to the door. She doesn't knock or ring the doorbell or fit a key into the lock. She just turns the knob and steps in, because at the end of the day, she's my mother, he's my father, and I'm their daughter. That makes this her house, too, even if she doesn't live here with him. I'm what binds them together.

Mom and I follow behind her. Mom carefully shuts the door, and I wait for her, because if I'm being honest, I'm not ready to go back in there again. I take a breath and close my eyes. But I have to. Mamí is speaking to him in a quiet whisper when we walk in; I can only hear bits and pieces of what she's saying.

But when he throws back what's left of his drink—a fresher one than from before, I notice with a pang in my chest—she raises her voice. She gets up and walks to the other side of the counter, crossing her arms. Her jaw stiffens, and I know she's clenching her teeth inside her mouth. I wonder if she'll succeed in holding back the anger. With Mom and me, she always does—there's never much to get that angry about, anyway. But with him? Today?

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Mark." Her voice is quiet and soothing, but demanding all the same. "Lexie wouldn't want this for you, she—"

The second she speaks, I know it's the wrong thing to say. _Everyone_ knows it's the wrong thing to say, and I can't for the life of me imagine why she thought it would help. But I'm not the negotiator here, she is; so I stand back and watch, and I feel Mom tense by my side when he starts to yell.

"You have no _idea _what Lexie would want for me, Callie!" His scream reverberates across the silent room; I can almost feel the rage spreading out from him and covering us all.

"Mark—" Mamí tries to interrupt from across the room.

"You have no _IDEA,_" he shouts again, his hand slamming loudly on the countertop, "because _I _have no idea!" He doesn't even seem to notice when the tears fall from his eyes, but it makes my whole body seize up like I was just electrocuted. _Oh, Dad… _"Because she's _DEAD_," he finishes in a roar, as if the addition were necessary.

He falters a moment later, seeming to trip over his own feet, and to my surprise, it isn't my birth mother, my Mamí, who rushes forward to catch him, to stand him up again… It's my Mom. He mumbles something to her that I can't here; it could be a 'thank-you' or a 'fuck off.' Either way, she doesn't move.

She puts her hand on his arm, and she uses that quiet voice she uses on me—when I have breakdowns over school or boys or life… I bite my lip. It all seems so trivial now. All I can focus on are the soft words coming out of her mouth, the gentle way she tilts her head to speak to him.

"Do you know how many times I've laid awake at night," she murmurs to him, "wishing it was me that died that day and not her?" She asks him quietly, her eyes resting intently on his. "Wishing our places were switched? Do you, Mark?"

"_Arizona_."

But Mom raises a hand to fend off Mamí's interruption. I swallow the growing lump in my throat, trying not to let the tears spill over my eyes. This is all too much.

"Zona…" My Dad manages, the rage falling out of his features at her confession. "I…"

"Do know how many nights, weeks, months, years—_years, Mark_—I've spent thinking about her?" She takes a moment to draw a breath, and when she speaks again, I can hear the tears in her words. "How I got to live and she was the one that died? And how it completely and totally _ruined _you?" Her voice is trembling now, and it shakes me to the bone. "How it tore you apart until there was _nothing_ left?" She grabs the nearly empty bottle of scotch and slams it on the counter in front of them. "Nothing but _this_?"

My father doesn't say a word. Everyone knows there's nothing to say.

"Don't think you're the only one that misses her, Mark. We all loved her. We all feel guilty. We—" She breaks off, sucking in a deep breath as she ducks her head. I don't want to see them, but I do anyway—tears are streaming from her eyes as well. Eventually, she looks back up and faces him again. "We all wish we were the ones to go that day, Mark. She didn't deserve it. That isn't news to us."

I watch his body start to shake. First his head, then his hand, then his whole body trembles. He drops the glass, and it shatters when it hits the floor. He stumbles back against the counter a moment later, and if it hadn't been there to support him, I'm sure he would've crashed to the ground. I watch him, speechless and heartbroken, and somehow I know he's not losing it because he's drunk.

"She was _twenty-seven,_" he chokes out.

"I know," Mom replies in a whisper. She steps closer to him, her shoes crunching across the broken glass, and gently positions him into a chair at the counter. "I know, Mark."

"What did she ever_ do_?" He asks, tears streaming down his cheeks. He's staring at my mother now, desperate and heartbroken. "Callie, what did she ever do to anyone, to deserve what she got?" He turns back to Mom before Mamí can wipe her red eyes or open her mouth to answer. "Why wasn't it me?" He's almost sobbing now, though I never would have thought I'd attribute that word to my father. He's been quiet in the past, and sad… But he's never _sobbed. _Come to think of it, he's never even shed one tear in front of me.

I wonder how many he's shed for her, and how often he drowns himself by doing so.

"She never did one bad thing in her whole life—yet she dies at twenty-seven, and what? _I'm _here?_ I'm _alive,for what goddamned reason—?"

"There isn't a reason," Mom interrupts softly. She blinks rapidly, and in an instant, her cheeks are covered with tears again. "There isn't a reason, Mark, it just happened."

His laugh is dry and chilling; I feel goosebumps sprout on my skin. "There's no reason?" He repeats scathingly. "Great. _Great, _Arizona, that makes me feel _so_ much better."

"Mark, you know I didn't mean—"

"I don't give a fuck what you meant," he cuts in. His voice is low and dangerous, and for the first time, I know I truly understand Mamí's complaints about his drinking. He stumbles to his feet, and as he towers over my Mom, her with her happy smiles and bright blonde hair, I can't help but feel an icy chill run up my body. He stares down at her with anger and hatred and heartbreak, and for a second I think, just for a second, that he might—

But then Mamí's between them, pushing Dad back into his chair and pulling Mom away. As she shepherds me to the door a minute later, I look over my shoulder for a last glimpse of my father. He's bent over the counter, his head in his hands, and I'm immediately ashamed of my thoughts. How could I ever think he'd hurt her? That he'd hurt _anyone_?

He can't even hold himself together; how would be able to tear someone else apart?

.

He came and apologized the next day. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, but he still did it. Mamí almost didn't let him in, but Mom and I convinced her otherwise.

"You can't blame him for his depression," Mom hissed at her while they debated letting him into the house like he was an unsavory stranger and not my biological father. Her voice was sharp and serious, and I knew from the tone of conversation that I wasn't supposed to hear it.

"It's been sixteen years—"

"_Calliope,_" Mom cuts in angrily, her hands slapping against her thighs, "you were not there that day, so cannot even _begin _to understand what it was like, watching her die, watching him do _EVERYTHING _he could to make things the least bit bearable for her..." She takes a measured breath. "You can't understand because you weren't there, but why don't you think about _this_: if it was me that died that day, would _you _have gotten over it after sixteen years?"

"I—"

"If you had no reminders, nothing but the guilt of losing me and letting me die… _Knowing _that we were broken up and ruined at the time and that we'd never—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "How can you make him out to be the bad guy here? _How_?"

"The _drinking, _Arizona—"

"Oh, so _what_!" She snaps. "So he drinks. So he gets hammered. Has he hurt anyone else?"

"He could!"  
"Has he hurt himself?"

Mami crosses her arms angrily; she knows she's lost but she isn't ready to give up just yet. "I'm sure he's tried."

"Oh, you're _sure _he's _tried,_" Mom replies, her voice high and mocking. "Well, then, why don't we just lock him up in the psych ward, by all means!"

"_Arizona,_" she growls. "This isn't a joke. This is our life, our daughter—" She breaks off, shooting a glance across the room at me. I quickly look away, pretending to fiddle with the hem of my shirt. Her voice is quieter when she continues, and I have to strain my ears to hear it. "He almost hit you."

"He did not raise a _finger _to me, Calliope!"

"He—"

"He was very drunk and he stood up," Mom counters angrily, "I do not see how that constitutes threatening physical violence."

"You don't understand," Mamí mutters. I look over, watching her walk away from Mom and towards their bedroom. A moment later, Mom sighs, opens the front door, and lets Dad in with a tired, tiny smile.

"Hey, Mark."

"Hey, Arizona," he greets quietly. He heaves a large breath; I watch them out of the corner of my eye. "I'm sorry," he whispers softly. "About last night. I'm sorry, it's just—"

She puts up her hands, palms out. "Don't apologize," she replies. "You don't have to say you're sorry for anything."

He nods reluctantly, and as I'm peeking at them over my shoulder, his eyes meet mine. And I know I'm busted. He side steps Mom, making a beeline for me. "I'd like to talk to Sofia for a bit," he tells the room. "If that's okay."

"It's fine," Mom and I reply at the same time. He sits on our couch, and I sit across from him, and Mom leaves us on silence. We wait. I tap my fingers nervously against my thigh and he stares and stares. If he doesn't say something soon, I'm sure I'll explode.

"…About last night," he begins finally.

"Dad," I whisper, ready to implement my Mom's strategy. "You don't have to—"

"No," he cuts in. "I have to." He sits forward, staring me directly in the eyes. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to accurately bring across how… how _humiliated_ I am for what happened last night."

"Dad, no," I try to say. "You—"

"I shouted at you and I shouted at your Mom," he informs me, as if I didn't already know. He serious blue eyes meet and hold mine. "That should never have happened, Sof. You should never have seen me like that. You will _never _see me like that. Not again, Sofia. I swear."

I stare at him in silence. After a few seconds, I draw a quiet breath and nod, because it's expected of me. I know next year, he'll do it again. He'll finish three bottles of scotch in a day, but because he'll hide it from me, and Mom, and Mamí, and because there won't be any more shouting, we'll pretend it didn't happen.

"Okay, Dad." I whisper the words. What else is there to say?

.

I break the rule number-one just as he's leaving a minute later.

"Daddy?" I call quietly. I turn my head slowly, finding him standing by the door.

"Yeah, Sof?"

"Will you tell me something about her?" The question is past my lips before I can even think about taking it back. And by the time I can think, it's much too late. I swear I can hear his intake of breath across the room. "Just—Just one thing," I qualify quickly. "It doesn't have to be something big, just—just something, so I can try to understand." I bite my lip. "So I feel like I know her."

He closes his eyes, sighing. He hangs his head for a few moments, but just when I think he's getting ready to turn and leave, he walks back to the couch, and takes his seat across from me again. "Sweetheart," he begins softly, "this is not something you need to understand."

"I—I know," I reply, immediately ashamed for butting in on something so private. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't—"

"It's not that," he interrupts quietly. "It's just…" He takes a breath, tilting his head to view me, and possibly the intentions behind my words, from a clearer angle. "Sof, I don't want you to think that this is a problem of mine that you have to solve. This has nothing to do with you. It isn't your burden."

"I know that," I reply. "I…" I look down. I don't know how to explain it to him. How scared I was for him last night, how worried I've been over the past few years, while I've watched him dig himself deeper and deeper into an early grave… "Dad," I whisper hoarsely, "Dad, I just worry about you. All the time. Every—everyday."

He hangs his head with a sigh, giving me the impression that this was the last answer he wanted to hear. "Sofia…"

"Mamí's right, Daddy—you _do _drink too much. You shouldn't—shouldn't do it that much. You should find something else."

He levels me with his hard gaze for a moment before a wry smile pulls up the firm line of his lips. "And what other coping mechanism do you suggest, honey?"

I can't help but give him a small smile back. This is what I love about my Dad. Where both my mothers try to protect me, teach me right from wrong, _raise me_… Dad treats me like an adult. He always has, even when there was no reason in the world to do so.

I think for a moment, pondering his question. After a minute, I can only think of one answer: "Couldn't you…" I pause, trying to phrase this as delicately as possible. "Couldn't you get a girlfriend?"

An amused smile turns up his lips, and for a second, I think he's going to laugh. But he stops short, and then the smile disappears. His voice is flat—but not angry or offended—when he replies. "No, Sofia, I cannot get a girlfriend."

"Why?" I ask, knowing I'm invading his privacy but unable to stop. "You aren't gay."

His lips twitch up at this. "No," he affirms. "I'm not gay."

"So…?" I trail off, waiting for an answer.

He sighs, lifting his eyes to mine. "Sweetie, I'm sorry, but this is not something you can understand, okay? This isn't—"

"Just tell me!" I interrupt, tired of being treated like a child by the one person who's never done that to me. "Just tell me why you can't find someone else, tell me why you—"

"Because I promised myself to her." His low, quiet reply interrupts mine and makes me freeze in place. Slowly, I manage to shut my mouth. I lick my lips, trying to get my brain to work.

"You…" I trail off, not even knowing what to say. What to ask. "You what?"

He sighs softly, closing his eyes for a moment. "You wanted to know something about her?" He wonders quietly.

I can't do anything but nod.

"Well," he replies, "here's something, then." He takes a deep breath. He stares at the coffee table between us while he speaks; he never once meets my eyes. To this day, I still have no idea how he got it all out without crying. He must have unrivaled self-control. "Your Mom told you how she died, I'm sure." I nod again, even though he's not looking at me for a response this time. "Well, we weren't together at the time. Me and…" He lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Me and… Lexie, we weren't dating at the time." He exhales slowly. "But she…wanted to be. She loved me, she said, and I—I loved her back; I was just too stupid to say it." He takes a breath. "But when I—I found her beneath that… piece of the plane… It all came pouring out. Things I hadn't thought of in months, in years… It all came pouring out because, really, that was my last chance to say it all." He swallows, lifting a hand to scratch the side of his beard. "I told her I loved her." He half-smiles. "They were the first three words out of my mouth. I'm sure I said it a hundred times that day. We both knew she was going to die—_everyone _knew she was going to die—so I tried to make up for all the lost time with all the words I had." He takes another breath, sliding his palms against one another slowly, like the way he does when he's studying a particularly hard physics problem on my homework. "And, uh, around the time she…" He inhales, letting his eyes fall closed in exhaustion. "Before she l—left me, I told her how I'd always wanted to marry her." I feel my throat grow tight; though I've never heard this story before, it doesn't take long to imagine where it's headed. _I promised myself to her. _I find it hard to focus on what he's saying as he continues; it takes double the effort just to listen to his shaky testimony.

"And s—she asked me…" He heaves a breath. "She was trapped under that plane, but she still asked me… 'Mark, why not now?'" He looks like he's about to laugh, and then a second goes by and I think he might cry. "'Why don't we get married now, here?'" He shakes his head sadly, a smile flitting up onto his lips unconsciously. "She was like that. Impulsive. …Funny," he adds after a moment. "Loving, too. And kind." His voice breaks. "She was _so_ kind. To me, she was so kind… And to everyone. But I didn't deserve it, not a second of it. Not her kindness, not her love…" His voice trails off, and as the minutes pass between us, I know he's finished speaking.

I can see the tears dangling from his eyes, but for some reason, they refuse to fall. I wonder if he's willing them to stay in place, to hang on, to hold on… Just like he no doubt willed her to stay with him before she died. _Stay here. Stay with me. _The thoughts come like punches in the stomach, and I find that I can't think straight for a few minutes afterward. Eventually, I manage to pull myself together… Only to find that my father isn't quite there yet. He's still staring blankly at that table. Finally, I whisper, "Did you marry her?"

His eyes find mine at the question, and the weakest smile turns up his lips before he replies. "Not legally."

"But you did," I press, my voice barely above a whisper. "Didn't you?"

He nods. "Yes. Yes, I did. I married her."

.

A few months later when I'm spending the night at Dad's place while my moms are out of town, he shows me a picture. I've never seen it before, so it wasn't hard to deduce that he'd kept it hidden away all this time. I know who it is immediately.

Looking at the face in the picture, I can't help but smile. She has long, flowing dark hair. Her teeth are bright, easily visible in her wide smile. And her chocolate-brown eyes, full of laughter and warmth.

I look over at him, thinking he'll be watching for my reaction. But no. He simply stares at the photo as well.

I break the silence after a few seconds. "She's beautiful, Dad."

"She was," he replies.

"No," I correct quietly. I look over, meeting his blue eyes with mine. "She is."

He holds my gaze so intensely that I don't dare to even blink. I stare into his eyes, unable to tell if they're filled with anger or sorrow or regret… But then his mouth turns upward, creating a small but true smile. A moment later, he looks down, nodding. Both our gazes fall to the woman in the picture again.

"She is," he agrees after a long moment. I wait a couple seconds, but he doesn't say another word. At his silence, I crawl over to his side of the couch and lean my head against his strong shoulder. Together, we stare into those chocolate-brown eyes; together, we offer small smiles that don't even begin to hold a candle to that euphoric face.

"If there's anything you'd like to know about her," he offers, wrapping an arm around my back, "you can ask me any time."

I close my eyes, not quite able to believe that these words are coming out of my father's mouth. Just a few months ago, I would've never thought I'd ever hear something like that. But he said it, and I heard it, and now is the time. I lick my lips, preparing myself, and I start with what I've always wanted to know. What I'm never asked Mom or Mamí, or anyone.

"Did she ever know me?" And because I can't help myself, because I can't hold in the words now that I have an outlet: "I—I know I'm yours and Mamí's, but… Did she at least meet me? Maybe… Maybe say hi?"

"Sofia," he whispers. I stare over at him, biting my lip.

"I… I just want to know," I explain. "She—She would've been my Mom, Dad."

He closes his eyes, and I watch a few tears leak out of the corners. This obviously isn't the first time he's thought about what would've happened if she had lived.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, immediately regretting causing him more pain. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupts quietly. His eyes open a moment later. He forces a smile onto his face and takes a breath. "Yes," he answers. "She did meet you."

"Did she…" I swallow the lump in my throat. "Did she like me?"

I watch his chin shake for a moment before he forces himself to hold it together. "Yes," he replies again. "She…" He exhales, slow and loud. "She thought you were beautiful, too."

I bite my lip hard, feeling the sudden urge to cry. "She did?"

He nods. "Yeah. She didn't get much time with you, but…" He lips flicker into a smile for a brief moment. "I think she cared for you, Sofia. I think she had a place in her heart, just for you."

"But I…" I can't ignore it; I know she wouldn't have been able to, either. "But I wasn't her daughter."

His eyes soften. "No, you weren't."

The tears prick my eyes now, and I can't stop them from falling. "But she loved me anyway?" I manage to ask, knowing '_love_' is an exaggeration but not caring. "Even though I wasn't hers? Why?"

He swallows roughly, expelling a short breath. "Because," he whispers, reaching out to wipe my tears away, "you were mine. You were a part of me."

"And she loved you." I don't ask. I know.

"Yeah," he nods, blinking slowly and not worrying about the tears anymore. "She did."

.

_Author's Note: The plane-crash marriage idea came from another scene I've been writing… I'm unsure as to if you guys will think it's too cheesy… But I liked it._

**_Please leave me a review._**


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